


Milk and Blood

by grayglube



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Kinkmeme, valarmorekinks prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-08-07 15:21:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7719883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayglube/pseuds/grayglube
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’d wanted her, for a moment, before he shoved it so deeply into his bones it did not rise to his thoughts at every whisper and sigh, until something broke and then it bled from him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Milk and Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the valarmorekinks meme on LJ: Sansa starts mothering Jon, making all his clothes, braiding his hair, trimming his beard, making sure he eats enough. Jon is shocked that he finds with all very erotic.
> 
> Lady's Keep is what I always refer to Dreadfort as once Sansa owns it, it's my own fic canon, worth a mention because it comes up in passing here.

When it begins he ignores the rush of his heart, he can only watch rapt as she speaks of duty and oaths to Lord Glover, as if the man is a disobedient child. When Glover pushes back against her accusations that he is abandoning his honor the way Jon swallows the startling feel of confusion and despair is something admirable.

 

It’s an expression he comes to know later. But that moment, when Ramsay Bolton still lived, when they had not enough men, when he'd believed he could save Rickon, was when he’d seen something of a woman in her. A woman who wasn’t just his sister, a woman who men would want. A woman who had suffered the wants of men.

 

It had sickened him then to think he was not so different.

 

He’d wanted her, for a moment, before he shoved it so deeply into his bones it did not rise to his thoughts at every whisper and sigh, until something broke and then it bled from him. She had chastised Lord Glover like her lady mother might have chastised any of her sons.

 

* * *

 

 

Her hands are warm, firm. He follows the nudging and small pushes as she turns his face.

 

The balminess of his skin is soothed by her touch.

 

“There, better,” She says, her mouth pinching the words but her tone pleased and precise.

 

His face feels lighter without the wild tangle his beard had grown into while he traveled back from The Last Hearth.

 

“Do I look like a king again?”

 

Her consideration lasts a long moment and heat flares under his jerkin, rises to his face.

 

“You don’t look like a goat anymore.”

 

He feels _particularly_ goatish suddenly, his loins wash with the same heat that would have colored his cheeks as pink as a girl’s once, his eyes are of a height with her breasts while he sits under her hands to be sheared.

 

Her hands are as pale and perfect as her mother’s were, they touch at his brow, smoothing over his tangle of curls, he feels like a boy in his sick bed again. It isn’t the pox now that makes his clothes uncomfortable and his blood a rush in his hands and head.

 

* * *

 

 

She prods at him, insisting again. “Share my plate.”

 

Her mutton is almost untouched and he’d beg off if he hadn’t earlier, he’d promised to take midday meal with her and the candles have long since been lit for nightfall. She’s lost patience.

 

He eats and she smiles, chin on her fist.

 

* * *

 

 

“Your hair is too long.” She chides.

 

“Yours is longer, besides, it’s cold.”

 

“Come then. I’ll braid it for you.”

 

He goes but not without retort, “Like a child.”

 

“You look silly when you play with it.”

 

Alone, later, in the shared solar she takes out the simple plait, he feels himself ready to slip into sleep, her long fingers and sharp nails gentle over his ears, they stroke him above and below, a lonely ghost full of phantom wants.

 

He begs leave of her to fill his hand full of his wants, to stroke them away until he no longer sees the red of her hair or her pale naked skin in his dreams.

 

* * *

 

 

She is quick from her chambers, a dressing gown and her heaviest furs, her hair unbound, she wears boots and he can tell by the hem beneath the furs she remains in her nightrail.

 

“I brought yours. Take it.” And she has him unwrap her of a fur.

 

The night is filled with dragon fire. His mouth has fallen open, amazement on the face of everyone in the yard except her. She is the one who bid the dragon queen come.

 

She deserves a crown, his sister. She is breathless in the freshly fallen snow, she is pale mouthed and bright eyed, red cheeked and she shivers without complaint under her furs. 

 

When Daenerys Targaryen slides from her mount he cannot speak. His sister shrugs herself from her furs and wraps the woman who looks made from winter in them. If pressed it’d be hard to name which woman is the one born of fire.

 

The wind blows her nightrail tight to her body, against the bright strokes of torches licking light and the dragon snorting he sees the long lines of her, the tip of each breast he knows must be painted pink by nature, and perhaps the flash of red that crowns her sex, the fire between her thighs. The shadows fall again and lady Brienne cloaks the Lady of Winterfell.

 

“He must be hungry.”

 

The Dragon Queen pulls his sister's fur mantle tightly around herself, “Drogon is always hungry.”

 

* * *

 

 

He is in a sick bed, he is a boy again.

 

He dreams.

 

He wakes.

 

Her mother tended him once in her guilt but Sansa tends to the wounds the dead have left him with because of love. She is singing softly, half a hum and toneless but still she sings, as careless and true as birdsong. It might be Spring for what he can hear, for the warmth of the room, for the force of his sudden need. He feels like a wolf ready to rut.

 

“Jon.” Her smile is the sun and he bundles his blankets more heavily to himself.

 

“Are you cold? Hot? The maester left some things.”

 

“Privy.” He rasps, if only to have her leave before she take notice of his cock, as firm as a dead man's when confronted with death.

 

She startles, “Oh, of course. I’ll go.”

 

* * *

 

 

Her breast is bared by her sudden awakening, he’s come to her chambers unbidden and under duress. The slope of her perfect breast stirs something inside of him.

 

The Lady Brienne comes to push at him from behind in her haste to measure her Lady’s safety. His sister's hands pull the bed clothes around her as she rises from her bed which has never been as safe as it should have been.

 

“What has happened?”

 

“Bran is awake.”

 

Her breast flashes into sight once more as she rights her thin bed gown and his mouth has run dry at the thought of how he’d like to fit it over her tender flesh.

 

* * *

 

 

“You will make a fine mother.”

 

Something in the Dragon Queen face softens as she speaks to his sister who holds a hand to the last dragon's scales. Something in Sansa turns to ice. “You’re kind to say that. Thank you.”

 

She is silent and far away during the feast and later in their solar she weeps when she does not know he stands watching.

 

“Sansa,” he starts, he does not know how to ask, he’s known the maester has gone to her chambers, he knows even as a King he cannot ask, the maester is of Winterfell and he is no Stark. She wipes away her tears, holds him under her steady gaze, sighs and stares down at her hands releasing him from her stare. “I prayed every night that so long as nothing bore fruit I would suffer whatever I must.”

 

She has not spoken of Ramsay Bolton or the things he had done to her. He knows all the same.

 

“I thought one day I would have as many children as my mother and that they would be beautiful and brave and kind and I’d love them more than anything else besides perhaps the knight to whom I’d be wifed.”

 

“You will.”

 

“I won’t." Her eyes shines, grief that is so many leagues deep that something inside of him loses breath trying to find the end of it. Her voice is as harsh as the Winter they both helped to end, "He had me every night, so many times, and nothing ever came of it.”

 

“You can’t know,” he starts but she rises and comes close.

 

“I do know." She is every inch a Queen when she tells him, there are no more tears, and her pain is silent. "He’d have had bastards, if he didn’t hunt down their mothers once he’d known of such things.”

 

She stares and he has no words of weight. He can only say, “I’m sorry.”

 

She nods, accepting. “Summer might never come, and Winter is no time for children. I want peace, not a husband, nor babes.”

 

* * *

 

 

Aegon is named heir. There is the problem of himself for his Aunt and her reign. A bastard has no claims, another House has none at all but still there is him, a bastard with no wife. Sansa does not ask him his thoughts, and Daenerys does not tell him at all.

 

“We are to marry in the fortnight. So there might be peace in the Kingdom.” Her words are firm and final. His obeisance is expected, he is as a child without choice.

 

His heart and body are traitors to his honor, he watches the sway of her long plait, red and bright against her grey gown and he wonders how it might look unbound, tumbling down her naked back while his mouth carves over the back of her neck.

 

* * *

 

 

They say simple vows before the heart-tree, simpler than other oaths he has spoken and broken. She does not pause or falter as she has before. There are no cloaks and there are no others. The North is told of what has happened with ravens, the King in the North, King Crow, The White Wolf, Jon Snow has wed the Lady of Winterfell, the Lady of Lady’s Keep, daughter of Ned Stark and Catelyn Tully, the Wardeness of the North, the Lady Sansa Stark.

 

* * *

 

The consummation is per functionary, he is well into his ale and she settles above him and he barely notcies when he has satisfied his lust somewhere in the haze of his own necessary drunkenness, she leaves him, sweat damp and well-used in his own bed.

 

In the morning they break fast and it is as simple as if they were brother and sister again. Half-blood and Trueborn. She praises him for his gentleness and thanks him for being so kind. The words do not seem to be anything but sweetness and charm but he knows they are as required as a mother not admitting that she has a favorite among her many children.

 

* * *

 

The heavy thread is red and the cloak is black, he thinks unbidden of Mance.

 

“What are you making now?”

 

She raises her eyes and smiles, “Dragons. For you.”

 

* * *

 

 

She helps with the birthing, she holds a child, bloody and damp, it screams, shrilly into the cold, her mouth is a hard line, its mother has died in the birthing bed.

 

He's wondered why women who have a choice in such things bring themselves so close to death so often.

 

He tells her his thoughts, later when the lonely babe has been given to a wet nurse, and she can only raise a shoulder, sip at his stolen tankard of mead, it is sweeter than the ale. She swallows and admits, “I thought children would be nice, but with a monster they could only be monster, in Winter most will die, at every birth someone in the room is as likely to die as be born. So, what is the worth of it? Not all men become knights, not all women mothers.”

 

She has no babe of her own and he wonders if that is perhaps why she watches him with such fondness, if not just to make up for the treatment of her mother than to at least let herself feel, for some small moment, in some small scale, what it might be like to be proud of a man who is not her lover.

 

But then in her bed she is quiet and soft and allows him his wants and careful needs with as much charity and grace as the Seven's Mother.

 

* * *

 

 

His dreams are monstrous and they hurt like knives, he startles aware under her hands, the fall of her hair smells of the hearth and strong mead and her perfumed oils, rose and cedar.

 

“I heard you cry out.”

 

“You should be a bed. It is late.”

 

“It is the hour of the wolf.” Her voice is a whisper of her shadows and the drape of her pretty hair, soft and missed.

 

In the dark he can see her as well as he might otherwise, he has the eyes of a wolf. He can see her swallow and feel her heat. “It is late.”

 

She is close, her mouth a breath from his own lips when she nods, “Aye.” Her breasts press against his arm. He knows what will come next, still he warns, “We need not.” Her chuckle is a dark, liquid thing, like blood in the moonlight, black and slippery, “Wed me, bed me, fill me with your seed and get a babe in me. Is that not what you should do, what I should let you do?”

 

He would growl if he were not a man. “I am whatever you will have me be.”

 

She pulls away his furs to find where he is hard and strong and hot for her. “You are good and kind and brave and you may hold me as you would a wife.” She is not selfless, she is not wounded thing, she was his sister once, they call her his wife now.

 

Her nightrail whispers to her feet as she stands to step from it, he sits and waits amongst the furs, as patient as a boy for a reward. She rises over him and the warmth of the bed furs between her thighs make her shift and sigh. She is something he wants. Desperately. “Gently,” she eases him to his back while he pushes away the furs that havewomann heavy, too hot for his limbs and where he aches for her.

 

She stays above and keeps him low pressed to the bed, it is a sweetness he isn’t used to, being commanded and mounted and ridden.

 

Her sigh is heaved out, half a gasp. Her cunt grasps at him, heat and slick and he loses words from feeling her. He guides her hips with his hands and she keeps pace with what he has dreamed her to be. He might weep when she whispers in the dark above him, far away but as close as his own beating heart and the taste of blood carried away from a dream where he walks on four legs.

 

“This is what it should have always been.”

 

And he thinks, maybe it is her that might weep, he reaches up for her face, her pouting mouth, the fall of her hair. Her fingers tighten around his wrist. It feels true and secret all at once when she moves, using his body to stroke at something deep inside herself. She keens sweetly, low and long and he remembers that they are as husband and wife and they might not have this be their only night. It still feels like a dangerous thing, some awful act they must hide because of who they are, because no man might want a woman as much as he wants her and not suffer for it.

 

But they both have suffered more than any other.

 

He settles himself so she might find some peace in the act, from _him_ though she is the one who moves the one who demands the one who wants and he can only watch the shadow of her in the dark of his chamber against moonfall and the dead embers of the hearth.

 

Her name is a rasp in his mouth.

 

“You may touch me. Just please,” and she stops, he knows what she means to say but won’t, ‘don’t ruin this’, and so much of what is between them has been of her asking him of things he does not know or coming to him to right something he has left wrong.

 

He only sits up, slowly, because he is patient.

 

He holds her about the waist, steady, because she is tiring.

 

He presses his mouth to her skin, softly, because she wants to be touched.

 

He is not a boy in this, the act of them together, he’s a man.

 

Her mouth opens to his and he wonders how they might still be able to breathe, his tongue slips across hers and they both are breathless after a long moment, the gentle bob of his thoughts floats above the feel of her inside, the throb of his most selfish parts, he feels the peace of her body, the gentle insistence of her hips.

 

The way she moves in the distress of her peak is as close to the final stutter of a heart he’s felt since his death. Perhaps the two moments are similar. He wonders, he spills his life inside of her and she shudders, mouth open and tongue quick on his.

 

After, she lies besides him, her warmth close but not against him.

 

When he sits up and looks over the pale expanse of the back, the silvered lines of old scars, the burned reminder of a dead house over the slope of her winged shoulder make something inside of him clench tightly.

 

Her voice is a quiet, small thing. “Might I stay?”

 

He thinks of killing the men who have hurt here, over and over again he dreams of their death. She mistakes his silence for displeasure.

 

“I’ll go.”

 

“I want you to stay.”

 

“Brienne and the Maester are the only ones who have seen.”

 

“…”

 

“He could not have done much worse I think and he’s dead now." Her voice is careful, her feeling pushed somewhere far away, she observes herself from a place beyond his bed.

 

“But it still doesn’t leave.”

 

“No.”

 

She rolls to face him, to press her gentle, clean hands to his unhealing wounds, the flesh of a dead man. Like a babe to their mother he loves her as if she is the only woman he has ever seen, there is only her, him and the wounds they carry.

 

“Is this easier because we were never close before we left or is it that is does not matter?” He wishes to know, she does too he knows but she won’t ever be the one to ask.

 

“I remember when you were hitting him again and again, if you had not stopped and had left him a smear of blood and skull in the dirt I would not have been angry. I’d thought about you, like this, then, that day.”

 

“…”

 

“I thought I wanted a knight, or to be protected.”

 

In the silence it is easier to speak, “I thought I wanted a mother,” he tells her.

 

In the dark they both might say, “But what I needed was a lover.” Him who had been left loveless for so long and her who was hurt so often by those who claimed it.

 

He wants her again, his body relentless in it's search for the peace she affords. He holds the scars of her back to his own chest and heart, pulling her back to him, her legs are long and his hands are strong as he holds one pale limb over his hip, he strokes deeply and she whines at the slip of him inside.

 

They’ve both become ceaseless, he forgets the dark of dying and she puts asides the pain other men have caused upon her flesh.

 

“I can’t sleep.” He tells her while he’s still inside of her, strong and unspent. She is near to tiring, “I’ll sing for you, then.” Her mouth is damp on the inside of the arm he's pillowed her head on.

 

“Nothing sad.”

 

“All the best songs are sad,’ she tells him, her lips smile against his skin. Her cunt hugs at him, greedy and slick.

 

He presses close, she hums, he spills and then she sings.

 

In his dreams he is a wolf, he tastes blood and relishes the kill he might revile as a man, somewhere in the dark someone, something, howls, sings.

 

In his dreams he is a wolf, sometimes there are the pale shadows of others like him. Dead things from a dead mother.

 

None of them are blameless, he is heavy in his sister’s arms. Shame is much less weighty than death, he sleeps soundly.

 


End file.
